#tenccs

the boy marches along, hands stuffed into hoodie pouch, fawny eyes surveying split pavement. (august and sam have taken strolls before. shot the breeze. sniffed out adventure. a textbook blueprint of friendship.)

She's become too comfortable in this place. Sprawling herself across the seats at the bar like she's at home, an arm against the bar top to prop her cheek against. Taylor peers across the edge of her glass as she sips at her gin & tonic through a straw.

"I polish up real nice." @tenccs

"Are you sure about this, mate?" Dave sure as hell isn't sure. He eyes the smack with suspicion; at this point, there are few things he hasn't tried and his hunt for painkillers is always going. But this seems a little bit too far, even for someone like Dave, who is so deep in the thrall of drugs that he doesn't even realize it.

@tenccs 

they don’t get enough storms in New York.  both Sam and Frank are in agreement on that. Frank always watches his hands- well, she always watches his hands to begin with, but she always watches them when he draws, makes it a point, stares openly like she has no shame. ( she has no shame, lost it somewhere between the third suicide attempt and the feeling of ending a life that is not hers. the hollowness, the way a penny drops. ) it could be anything- roses, the open landscape of his childhood, or storms. rarely people, though, at least none that she sees.

the first time she saw him draw, it was on a napkin at brunch. some friends were there, talking about something Sam didn’t care about and Frank barely paid attention to- of course, Frank got tired of spending time with them half an hour ago, only staying because the feel of Sam’s leg pressed against hers felt so nice, because the mimosas were bottomless, because there was a couple three tables over who were planning a murder or a wedding and she wanted to find out. 

she has the couple in her periphery, but her eyes stay on Samuel’s hands, sketching storm clouds idly, the Southwest landscape spread impossibly large across the napkin. she barely breathes, afraid to disturb him. 

they’re interrupted by a friend, asking what they’re doing, the laughter from the table sounding like hyenas to Frank’s ears. 

the storm, one of the few that hit The City dead on, rages outside her windows. her drafty loft carries the sound well, the light better. lightning cracks all around them and she watches Sam watch the storm, his bare back to her, his scars glowing in the bright light. it looks to her like they’re calling out to the lightning. his dark hair moves in a powerful gust of wind shaking her windows. 

they don’t need to talk, not really. ( sometimes she wonders if he says things, if she says things, sometimes she doesn’t remember seeing his mouth move, sometimes she doesn’t remember using her voice. ) 

she speaks in response, whether or not he actually says, “I always felt closer to nature than I did to people.”

@tenccsaltered carbon starters

He was wondering how long it’d take Sam to look under the jacket draped haphazardly across the object in the corner. Rod shrugs as he turns to face Sam and the shiny new guitar, giving it a casual once-over.

“Who knows. I was probably drunk at the time.” ( Roderick S. Kasun was, in fact, as sober as he ever gets when he went down to flash cash and ask about a Nice guitar, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. )

yeah

@almalexiah replied to your post: would u guys burn me at the stake if i told yall...

yeah

“Are you just gonna stand there all night?”